Death walked down a rain-soaked hill. The ground was moist and green, giving way a bit to the weight of each step. The sky was darkened and gray, still and cold. The rising fog betrayed the presence of downpour that left just moments ago. There were still rumblings and rumors in the air of a thunderclap that lived for but a powerful moment.
Death walked to the side of the road that was at the bottom of the hill. There was a mangle of steel, fire, and blood before him; an automobile accident. The smoke of the engine fire mixed with the surrounding fog, and the smell of burning flesh and oil saturated the air.
There were two noticeable forms in the car before him: a woman and a car seat. Death lowered his head and crouched down to get a closer view of those who would soon be called victims when he saw a picture catch ablaze close to the woman's hand. The visage of a man blackens slowly as the flames envelop the photograph. The smile he was wearing crumbled and falters to the heat around it. Then, its gone. Perhaps a husband, maybe a father, the relationship didn't matter anymore. It all burns away, here on the road.
Death rose and looked around, stepping from side to side to measure the situation. It was a tight curve around the hill, and the roads were wet; a simple mistake or miscalculation is all the happened. The tanker that was further down the road must have overturned, falling on top of the sedan, the resulting pressure and sparking starting the fire. The truck had jolted itself from the tank, and skidded a few yards ahead, separated from the wreck. Death walked towards it with his hands in his pockets, slowly watching the pavement and listening to the sound of crying.
Around the steely bend of the tanker, behind the truck was Earl. A large man with a scraggly, unkempt beard and clumsy hands. He wore a John Deere hat and a flannel jacket. It kept his body dry in the previous rain, but it could not prevent the moisture on his face. It stuck Death as being a silly image; a man of such build and stature cry as he did, kneeling with his face to the ground, pounding the pavement with a weakened strength.
Death knew. Death knew what his crying was about. It wasn't about the accident, or even the woman and child he killed. Earl had not yet known someone had died. He was crying because he was angry. This accident was the last straw, the final mark of a series of dark events that defined his life. This accident meant the end of his career, one the Earl didn't particularly enjoy, but Earl had bills, many bills, and a tab at his favorite bar. Add an alimony and child support to all of that, and you have the making of a poor, desperate man. No, Earl wasn't crying about the wreck. Earl was crying because he hated his life.
Death knelt down next to Earl and watched him for a moment. He watched as Earl retraced his sorry life in his feeble mind. He watched as Earl gasped at the realization that someone else might have been hurt in this accident. He watched as Earl stood up, bruised and broken, and made his way around the tanker. He watched as Earl smelled the air, sniffing the smoke and fog. He watched as Earl witnessed the blackened mass of the sedan and, clutching his arm, stumbled over to what was left of the woman and child.
The next few moments would be the most significant in Earl's pitiful life. Earl first noticed the color of the sedan underneath the flames and char. Through the black, a familiar red peeked through. One what was left of the hood was an ornament that belied a familiar make of car. Earl looked at the back to view a burned license plate. It singed his hand as he cleared the dust, but for some reason, Earl didn't feel any pain. His heart was beating too fast. His mind was too far ahead of himself. He began to shake as he read the familiar numbers of a car he had once owned, but had given away. Earl rose and looked to what would have been the driver's seat, to what would have been the hand of a woman he once loved. There was still a ring.
Then Death smiled with a note of surprise, remembering the image of the man in the picture. The face in the photograph was Earl's. Death watched as Earl's face contorted in fear and grief. He stumbled backwards and fell, his face transfixed on the fire. Then, he saw the plastic car seat and a small moan escaped from Earl's mouth. Death moved closer to Earl, hands still in his pockets, and tapped his foot twice when he stopped. It was the climax of realization that always excited Death the most.
Earl was frozen, wide eyed, staring at the wreckage. He blinked, and his demeanor changed. He stood, slowly at first, yet he was somehow calm and dignified, as if taken by some ideal or conviction. He stepped toward the sedan, sniffed and let out a little cough. Earl then turned and walked back to the truck with a deliberate pace. Earl didn't feel the burns on his hand or the bruises on his arm. The cuts on his face had clotted and dried, and he wasn't crying anymore. By all appearances, Earl was now strong and determined.
Death found himself struggle to keep pace with Earl.. He watched as Earl ripped the door from the truck, climbed in, and emerged moments later with an object in his hand.
It was an old hunting knife. Perhaps it wasa gift from a father to a son. Perhaps it was bought as a practical purchase. It didn't matter anymore. The knife had only one relationship with Earl now. Earl removed the knife from its casing and placed it on his neck. The moment of decision had come, had Earl paused. His resolved countenance fluttered and dimmed, and Death walked up slowly beside Earl, whispering softly in his ear.
"Do it."
Earl breathed and exhaled, and in one quick motion cut an arc across his neck. There was little blood at first, but more flowed and poured as Earl collapsed on the ground. There, beside his truck and yards from those he loved, Earl died.
Death watched it all and gave a little puff after a few silent moments. The crackle of the fire was still sounding, and the rain had started once again. The water pooled in the potholes of the road, and Earl's blood was running down the pavement, mixing with the oil and the gas of the sedan. Death is always a romantic, a poet at heart, and he was pleased with his newest masterpiece of tragedy here. He ran his hand across Earl's fading face, and took the hunting knife. Death stood, placed the knife in his suitcoat, and returned his hands to his pockets, walking slowly up the hill from where he came. The ground still gave way to his weight, the thunderclap that the rumblings foretold rang once more, and Death smiled as he contemplated how the world works.
0 comments:
Post a Comment